


All of Nothing

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel), Ubisoft City of Love: Paris
Genre: Companion to Postcards, F/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, slight language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: One-shot set between seasons 1 and 2, the MC’s musings on events with a certain Vincent Karm as she travels. Paired with Postcards.  Hints at VincentxMC.  Inspired by “Cirice” by Ghost and “All of Nothing” by The Birthday Massacre.





	All of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to an earlier work, Postcards. Can be read without it but they're meant to be paired together. If you're in the mood, listen to Cirice and All of Nothing, they definitely helped getting back into Season 1 Vincent and the dynamic between Vincent and the MC.

 

She looked over her shoulder a final time, gazing up at the prison, ingraining it in her memory as her eyes searched and found a dark-clad figure looking back out at her.  

His warning was a farce, surely.  He had no reason to help her, to give her the next lead to chase.  At least he jumped right to business, as dramatic as that had been.  

She saw his eyes fall into her empty left hand for the briefest of moments before he dove right into his reason for calling her.  Unlike everyone else, he said nothing about it, never pushed or teased or prodded.  Their relationship was certainly...one of respect, if not much else.  

Another threat to Paris...one he couldn’t tell her about.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he had said a mere few minutes ago, looking quite satisfied with himself.  

She briefly wondered if he had ever been able to use such a Bond-villain cliche before her reply danced off of her lips.  “Why do all of your threats sound like pick-up lines?”

She didn’t get an answer, only a sinister warning.

Something dark enough to scare Vincent Karm had to be worth...consideration.

Just not now.  Her plane was leaving later that evening.

As she headed back to her apartment to pick up her luggage, she found herself unable to think of much else except peridot green eyes and a signature, mischievous, smirk.

She needed to get the hell out of Paris.

* * *

If there was a place she could settle that  _ wasn’t  _ Paris, it might be Bath.

The very spirit of the city was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  The amalgamation of Roman architecture with English culture was such a change from Paris, from America, and yet...it was perfect to her.

Odd that she had chosen something Roman as her first stop.  A running thread in her life, ancient springs with supposedly magical powers.

Except the spring at Bath was known for its mineral properties, not for inspiring the purest form of love.  

Weeks had gone by since she first left France, her only notifications from Kat with videos or  pictures of their found feline.  She still had texts from Raphael; a part of her couldn’t bring herself to delete them and she didn’t know why.  

He would be dragging her around the city, she knew, going on tangent after tangent of historical interest and fact, telling stories about figures she didn’t know, and pointing out minute details, his face alight with joy.  Or at least, he would, in another life, where they actually communicated rather than wrestled control from one another.  

As she wandered the balcony, listening to her audio guide, she briefly wondered what  _ Vincent  _ would be doing if he were here, possibly with her, possibly not.  He would certainly mentally sneer at the children running around below, constantly being yelled at by their parents not to go near the square pool at the center of the room.  He would never let such an expression cross his face in public, she knew; the man was too self-aware for that.  Would he marvel at the cathedral across the way, with its minute architectural details?  Comment on the style of the statues she was passing?  

_ What does that even matter?  He found you amusing, nothing more.  A mouse to chase and dangle between his teeth.   _ She thought, staring at a didactic panel about the spring.   _ You’re just not used to being alone so much, get a grip! _

The underground parts were her favorite, the musty air reminding her of her first trip into the catacombs.  More carvings and sculptures adorned the walls and she found herself imagining what the rooms would have looked like centuries ago, when they were used for their actual purposes.

As she finished her tour, her eyes found the wall of postcards, as they often did whenever she went somewhere new.  She filed through them, picking one for her parents, one for Kat, Leo, TJ (he had given her his US address before he left France two weeks prior), and a few more for her own personal collection.

She went to the courtyard, where the actual bath was, and took a seat at the perimeter, watching people for a short time.  Digging through her bag, she found her fountain pen, a gift from her grandfather after graduation, and began writing her postcards on the spot before she lost all inspiration the ancient site stirred inside her.

She finished Kat’s, TJ’s, and Leo’s fairly quickly, and took the time to consider including some sort of update on her life to her parents.  And yet...she stared at one of the blank ones she had left.  Before she realized what she was truly doing, her pen was translating her thoughts to the back of the card.  

Why was she even thinking of him?   _ Again _ ?  The whole idea of her traveling was to get away from what had just transpired in the past few months.  To rid her mind of ancient riddles and springs and cryptic monologues and three piece suits...

_ As odd as it is, I feel as though you’re the only one who understands my decision.  Not to leave Paris, as much as you had urged me otherwise, but for returning the ring.  I never did thank you for not asking, as everyone else certainly did, and second-guessed me all the while.  I left to figure some things out, professionally and otherwise, and I can’t return until I do. _

_ I thought perhaps seeing something beyond the cityscape of Paris would make your time...bearable. _

She was unable to truly hide her typo of ‘understands me’ in the first sentence.  Too personal.  She couldn’t give him credit for that,  _ wouldn’t  _ give him the satisfaction of knowing her still had the better of her.

_ He still has you between his claws _ , she thought as she dropped the cards off at her hotel’s front desk to be sent out.  

* * *

**_Roughly a year prior…_ **

_ Every night, the same dream.  Sometimes less, sometimes more.  Green eyes in the darkness around her, a soft voice speaking to her from nowhere in particular...whispering the words of Heloise’s riddle.   _

_ She’d know that voice anywhere, even though she had only heard it briefly.   _

_ He had captivated her that night in his office, caught her just off-guard enough because she was so sleep-deprived and angry with Marion.  Told her things about her own boss that she knew, deep down, were true; Raphael was hiding the truth from her, to protect her.  Yet here she was, in the den of a predator, all because he had failed to tell her why she was truly in Paris, what he wanted from her. _

_ A younger, less seasoned journalist would have taken the bait.  Vincent’s words would have made her bleed from their cuts but they only served to make her question things further, to doubt everyone. _

_ She was looking for answers when he called her, left her with no choice but to get in the car and come to him, accompany him to the opera he adored so much.   _

_ Instead, she left with more questions, more doubts.   _

_ And that’s when this dream, this singular narrative from her subconscious, began.  The springs in her mattress felt like nails, her bed hardly providing the comfort she so desperately sought at the end of the day.   _

_ Tonight’s was much the same, or so it began.  His eyes, mischievous, curious, observant; he could see through her, and into the deepest parts of herself.  She was wearing the same dress, a gown that she would never be able to afford in her lifetime of a deep blue, with embroidered detailing with crystals, and long lace sleeves, much of her back exposed in a deep V right above the small of her back.  _

_ She heard the beginning lines of the poem as she wandered in the darkness, always torn between letting herself be drawn to him and turning away, running… _

_ This time, she didn’t have a choice as she felt his breath on her neck, finishing the final line of the poem.  She froze as she felt warmth against her back, lips grazing her neck, fingers running down her arms over the lace, one hand capturing hers to spin her around to face him. _

_ They fell into a dance that she couldn’t name.  He would lead, she would follow, only for the tempo to change and she found herself leading him.   _

_ If she didn’t know him, she would say it was pleasant, enjoyable, even.  His hand on her back was warm, never leaving her waist; she had sworn he hesitated, even, at the idea of touching her skin until the music required her closer to him and he was left with little choice but to press her closer.   _

_ It usually ended here, if not earlier, when she was unable to stay asleep, the dance fading from her mind as she woke.   _

_ Not tonight. _

_ At some point, he had won their struggle and was leading her again, their chests touching and cheeks brushing, his breath warm  at her ear.  She wasn’t quite sure what was building in her chest; fear, anticipation, excitement...it was stronger than whatever it was she had felt in his office that night.   _

_ He whispered her name in a way she was unable to ignore, feeling the lightest of kisses on her cheek, so light she wasn’t sure she felt it.   _

_ She drew back and tilted her head, just enough for their noses to be barely touching, their breath mingling for a moment before she closed the distance between them.  He never pushed for more, responding in kind only when she found herself eager for a deeper kiss.  She wasn’t sure how long that lasted; her dreams always felt like eternity, and this was something else entirely.   _

_ At some point, they became deeper, slower, learning to understand and predict the other’s actions and respond accordingly.  Much like their dancing, without the constant tug for power and control. _

_ His hand let go of hers to cup her cheek before a finger curled under her chin, tilting her head up as he eased away from her, the kisses slowing and become shorter. _

_ The last thing she saw was his eyes, glistening with something she couldn’t quite place, as he whispered, “Such a shame you picked the wrong side.” _

_ ***** _

She woke with a start, sitting up in bed as she struggled to breathe.  This apartment was too damn hot as it was.  Her skin felt like it was on fire, a burning coursing through her veins that she couldn’t place.  She felt around her for a moment, confirming she was, in fact, in her bed and that this was her room.  

“Was just a dream…” she whispered to herself, eyes adjusting to the light of the early morning.  

A glance to her phone told her she had, yet again, beaten her alarm.  Grand.  

For once, she’d like to sleep until she woke up naturally.  Without dreams.  Without alarms.  Without worrying over the fate of a city she had so quickly become attached.

She pushed herself out of bed, catching a glimpse of her tangled mane of hair and disheveled pajamas in her mirror before heading into the kitchen.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with...whatever else it was Kat was making before she left for work.  She stopped questioning her best friend’s diet habits a long time ago and was not about to start again.

“Morning,” she muttered, reaching into a cabinet for her new favorite mug, one she had picked up from a street vendor in Belleville recently to replace the one she left behind in America.

Kat muttered something in reply, quickly looking in her direction before doing a double-take.  “(f/n), are you feeling okay?  You look...really pale.”

The journalist hummed in ascent that she was, indeed, quite fine.  Other than the general awareness of her body betraying her common sense as she thought about her dream again, she  _ was  _ in fact, quite fine.  

“Maybe you should take a break, work from home or something.”  Kat suggested, turning back to the frying pan.  

The new Kat would have been more direct with her, she noted.  This was Old Kat.  Concerned Kat who wasn’t sure if it was her place to say anything.

“Why do you say that?”  She shot back, pulling the coffee pot off out of the machine and turning to lean against the counter to watch Kat.

“I....I’m only suggesting it because I’m worried how...close you’re playing this to the chest.”

“Kat…I’m a big girl.”  She replied, taking her mug and the pot to the tiny table they used to eat.  “I’ve handled far worse cases than mysterious riddles and the likes of Vincent Karm…”

“You muttered his name in your sleep, (f/n).”  Kat said quickly, unable to keep up her soft approach.  “I got in late last night, but you said his name.  And the  _ way  _ you said it...I didn’t think you were alone.”

She hadn’t made it across the kitchen when she felt her hand tremble and the coffee pot slip from her grasp to shatter on the tile, glass scattering and hot coffee splashing and soaking her socks.  The cat yowled at the loud sound and dashed towards the living room, curling up and watching the scene intensely until it was safe.

“Shit,” she hissed, stepping back while trying to avoid the shards of glass.  “I’ll buy a new one later on my way home.”  

She had avoided Kat’s gaze as she picked up the glass and wiped up the coffee, saying nothing to explain what she couldn’t remember doing.  Kat didn’t need to know about her dream.  It wasn’t integral to the investigation.  

Her best friend didn’t push the matter further.  At least Kat knew when to drop things.

**_Present day_ **

She pulled her sweater tighter around her to fight off the morning chill.  She enjoyed taking her coffee outdoors recently, watching the city around her wake up as the sun came over the horizon.

Argentina.

She wasn’t sure what brought her here other than impulsivity.  There were a few leads here, though, and she would see them through to finish her story.  She was surrounded by the things she grew to hate in the past year; lies, the withholding of truth for ‘protection’, the lack of justice, the secrets she untangled only to find more.  It was tiring.  

At times, she almost felt jaded by the lack of faith she had in people.  It was her job to uncover the dark aspects of the world and bring them into the light.  It was hard to keep hope in people, in humanity, when all she dealt with was uncovering the problems, the corruption, the cruel plans…

It was a duty someone had to do.  And she would see it through.

She had finished her usual batch of postcards, with  _ his  _ still blank, waiting to be written.

A year.

A year ago, she was driven to his office in the dead of night, hoping to get answers, an end to the death threats.  And instead she found someone who saw every part of her and  _ respected  _ her for who she was, for the work she did.  

A year and he still found a way into her thoughts.

It frustrated her.  She was hoping by  _ leaving  _ Paris, she would understand just...what it was she thought about Vincent Karm.  And here she was, a year later, halfway across the world, and she was still no closer to an answer.  

Her pen glided over the paper as she began her train of thought.

_ A year ago, to the day, as I write this, I entered your office not knowing what to expect, except perhaps a face to the threats.  You didn’t scare me then, and you don’t now, not that you're capable of much behind bars.  Your candor was a welcome change from the half-truths and omissions I was getting elsewhere, and I almost miss your dramatic allusions and innuendos.   _

_ Almost. _

_ But I do miss your penchant for truth.  At least I knew what I was up against right from the start.  Paris is not the only city filled with secrets and lies, it’s most of the world.  My job is to unveil them but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a price I’m paying to myself for exposing the corruption of the world.   _

_ You must have better things to do than read these, surely.  I’m not even sure why I started but I can’t seem to bring myself to stop. _

  
She skimmed it, not caring if it was  _ too  _ truthful and speculative,  _ too personal _ .  He couldn’t reply anyway.  What did it matter?

She gathered up her things and went back into her hotel room to get ready; she had a few interviews and then she was heading home for the first time in a long while.

* * *

 

She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, shakily, as she pushed away her emotions.

This trip was a disaster.  

She should never have come home.

Her parents did what they always did.  Turned up the charm, praised her for her hard work, for catching a criminal CEO who was about to drug an entire city, for becoming the reporter of the year in the field, for making them proud.  

And as the weekend wore on, they cut her down.

“You should have stayed with him.  You could have had a successful,  _ stable _ career with a prestigious magazine.”

“That ring looked lovely on your finger.”

“But what about what  _ he  _ wanted?”

“I heard my coworker mentioning her son being single, he’s been promoted three times this year and is apparently in line for an executive spot with a news network.  Come to think of it, I also heard another mention their daughter was recently accepted for a teaching position at an Ivy League...”

They didn’t care.  They cared enough about her work when it gave them things to gloat about with friends.  Her happiness, her passion for her career, for her friends...none of that mattered, in the end.  They wanted a successful daughter, with a more successful partner (at least they were open in that regard and accepted her sexuality), who they could boast about with their friends and make them feel better about themselves.

The older she got, the more she saw through their manipulation.

It was no wonder she found herself driven to focus on the truth, helping people  _ see  _ what was going on around them.

Anger twisted her gut as she looked around the terminal, trying to find a quiet place to just...think.  She could barely hear her own thoughts.

Now her flight was delayed.  She forgot how tedious New York was when it came to cancellations and delays.  It wasn’t the first time she was stranded in JFK for almost half a day; at least it gave her time to work, she supposed.

She had one more blank card to write before sending them.  They were all brief, full of anger and frustration at having gone home.  She found a quiet bar and ordered a glass of rosé as she pulled out her pen and quickly wrote:

_ Funny how the people who say they’ll support you and your goals manage to twist everything.  It’s suffocating.  Much like this airport terminal _ . 

She took a sip of her wine and tucked the card away in her purse.  She pulled out her laptop and began editing some of her pieces and answering emails, checking social media.

Anything to rid herself of the disappointment crushing her heart.

* * *

 

Third on her list of places to settle if she couldn’t stay in Paris: Morocco.  It was stunning, colorful, vibrant, lively.  Such a change from some of her previous stops.  

She was debating on whether to book a trip to Paris to see Kat.  Her texts had stopped cold months ago, and anything she sent bounced back to her.  Kat never replied and eventually her phone told her the number was no longer in service.

Odd.

Kat  _ always  _ kept in touch.

Leo had dropped off the face of the planet too; he would at least text her a thank you or mention he got her latest card.  

Rude much.

She couldn’t reach out to Louise or Raphael,  _ especially  _ Raphael.  TJ was back in the States, as far as she knew.  Tristan and Kat broke up not long after she left Paris, so he was of no help either.

She wondered…

_ Don’t ask for the devil’s help when you’re not prepared to pay the price _ , she reminded herself.

Vincent Karm was not a man to turn to in desperation.  He’d have her soul in his hands in no time, at that rate.

And that email from...who was it, Sarah?  Mentioning Kat not showing up for work?   _ That  _ was just as odd as Kat’s sudden lack of communication.  Something was wrong.  Her instincts didn’t like this situation as well, that her best friend just dropped conversation without even a reason, and now she wasn’t showing up to a position she had worked so hard to get?

She sighed.  This wasn’t making sense.  

She had long since stopped writing cards to her parents, and to her friends when they stopped letting her know they got them.  Something about this seemed...oddly intimate now.  Her thoughts, her words, now only being sent to one person.

She felt her face grow hot as she wrote:

_ My passport must rival yours by now _ .   _ The nature of this methods means I never get to know your replies but I’ve been having trouble getting in touch with people I should be able to talk to.  Kat, for instance.  Months with no reply from her is odd, worrying even.  But the thought of returning to France, even to just check on her, still unsettles me.  A deep part of me feels as if I disappointed so many of those I called friends but I know they would want me to do what’s best for me.   _

_ If I do come back, perhaps I’ll consider visiting.  For old times’ sake. _

Old time’s sake…

Did they even  _ have  _ that?  Their….dynamic was simply one of respect and perhaps a bit of unresolved tension.  They were the furthest thing from close, how could have any old times?

_ Idiot...ah well, it’s already written.  No sense in fixing it now, _ she mused, setting the card and pen aside.

She looked out at the evening cityscape, the view blurred by the raindrops tapping softly on the window.  

The closest they had to anything remotely “old times” was the night in the catacombs.  Raphael being nearly drowned in the spring, Vincent offering her one last chance to change sides...her fingers touching the smooth silk of his tie as she straightened it…

As cheesy as their exchange had been, she had seen  _ something _ in his eyes that night.  It was a fleeting glimmer, gone before she could check for it again, but she had seen it beneath the surface of his smug expression.

She shook her head and turned back to her half-packed suitcase, pushing aside the regret she felt for not kissing him that night.

* * *

 

_ I can’t believe this!  For the first time in my career, I’ve landed myself in jail and it actually has nothing to do with me breaking the law! _  She thought, stunned at the audacity the Inspector had for bringing her in.  

She certainly understood that he needed a suspect, but seriously?!

She was snarky, hiding her pain behind insults and sarcasm, thankful when Leo’s brother finally left her to her own devices.  She didn’t want to talk to a cop.  She didn’t want to be in jail.  

“Kat…” she whispered, sitting on the cot, feeling the tears she had pushed away come welling back, burning her eyes.  “Who would do this to you…”

Vincent’s words from the last time she was here came back to her in full force.  “You’re going to regret this, Ms. (l/n).  When the time comes, you’ll see how wrong you are!”  He had warned.

She hadn’t listened.

He warned her, someone already dangerous as it was warned her about other dangerous people, and yet she didn’t listen.  Would Kat still be alive, had she not left?  Was this her fault?  

She choked back her sobs as the guilt washed over her, the image of Kat’s blue lips seared into her eyelids.  

If the Inspector didn’t find her killer,  _ she would _ .  She would avenge Kat and finish what her best friend started.  She needed to understand what it was that she was investigating, what got her killed.  

Hugo came back some time later, something about leaving jokes to journalists like her (she would have been offended if she wasn’t so damn emotionally drained), and that her presence was required elsewhere.  He had at least offered her tissues to wipe her eyes and nose.  How polite.

_ My presence is required?  By whom? _

She followed him out of her cell, through the dimly lit corridors and into a much...emptier block of cells.  Odd.

_ Wait a second...this was where Vincent was the last time I saw him.  They cleared out of the whole block so he has no neighbors?! _

“Sir,” she heard Hugo say as she saw a glimpse of the once-empty cell.

It was redecorated with a larger, four poster bed, a zebra throw carpet, pictures- _ Again with the dog and the banana?  What the heck is up with that? _ -and plenty of books.  She squinted, finding Harry Potter and Machiavelli’s  _ The Prince _ on the window sill.  A bottle of wine sat on the table, opened, a glass half-full, a clean empty one beside it.

She hoped she didn’t look too desperate, too heartbroken as she heard a familiar voice break the silence.  At least his sense of fashion hadn’t changed.  At least  _ someone  _ could be a constant in her ever-changing life.

_ Not how I imagined our...reunion… _ she thought bitterly.

“Welcome back to my humble abode.”


End file.
